


Secretary to the Prince

by CozyCryptidCorner



Category: Original Work, exophilia - Fandom
Genre: Elf, Gen, fae
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:00:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22699789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CozyCryptidCorner/pseuds/CozyCryptidCorner
Summary: “Care to explain yourself?”You just about have a heart attack, everything in your body spiking as adrenaline hits your system. Whirling around, you try to stay brave, glowering at the man who… isn’t a man, and swallow thickly. “Care to explain you-yourself?”***If you are reading this on any third party apps (such as unofficialao3), or on any platform besides AO3, Tumblr, and Wattpad, then you are reading stolen work. I do not give consent for my stories to be published or pulled elsewhere.***
Relationships: Fae/Human, Fae/Reader, Monster/Reader, Monster/human - Relationship
Comments: 9
Kudos: 309





	Secretary to the Prince

**Author's Note:**

> Here is the first faebruary story of the month! Hope you all enjoy.

#

Your blood _roars,_ hot and _shaking_ with rage. Everything can go right ahead and _fuck themselves,_ those assholes, those stupid fucking excuses of fucking _people,_ motherfucking _motherfucks._ Everything is too bright, and then too dark, you think your vision is somehow affected by the wicked anger running through your veins. Hastily, you stumble through the forest, haphazardly shoving your way through the trees with wild abandon.

There’s a ring of mushrooms in your way, but you are not going to allow _anything_ to pull you from your path. Already, you’ve bent, bowed, and groveled to those who did not _deserve it,_ you are not about to allow some child’s tale to bully you into submission, too, so you march into it like you _own_ the goddamn forest. You’re so confident that you almost don’t notice the very tall, slim figure in your periphery until you’re out of the ring.

“Care to explain yourself?”

You just about have a heart attack, everything in your body _spiking_ as adrenaline hits your system. Whirling around, you try to stay brave, glowering at the man who… _isn’t_ a man, and swallow thickly. “Care to explain you- _yourself?”_

Honestly, you don’t know how he managed to escape your attention, but he’s there, as suddenly as a phantom. And he takes up _space,_ tall, well-muscled, skin almost excessively pale enough to be concerning to any sensible person. Behind him, you see a shimmer of iridescent movement, but you are too transfixed on the symmetry of his face to investigate further. “This forest is mine by blood. Anyone who trespasses answers to _me.”_

You turn around, but the ring is _gone, goddamnit._ Still trying to tamper down all senses of fear, you hold your chin high, though you are quaking on the inside. Fuck, _fuck,_ you know where you are, and it isn’t good. “Alright, what are your questions, then?”

He doesn’t seem as taken aback as you hoped he might, but he _does_ seem a tad bit amused by your moxy. “Repeat that.”

“What’s your question?” You say, again, trying to play the fae for his words the way they are rumored to play with humans. “You said that all who trespass _answer_ to you, which requires a question. What’s your question?”

Again, he regards you, not with respect, but with amusement. Still, he takes a moment to mull your statement with all the seriousness of an actual proposition, rubbing the stubble of his chin in thought. “I suppose my question would be why you are here, and if you would like to return to your home.”

You crossed over into the fucking _otherworld_ and are currently speaking to a _fae._ This is it, you realize numbly, this is how you die, you absolute dumbass. You offer a listless shrug in response because you _know_ better than do offer up any definite answer to the _fae_ of all creatures.

At your refusal to speak again, he cocks his head, _damn, that’s a beautiful jawline,_ and he says, “would you like to return to your world?”

“What would it cost me?” You risk speaking, swallowing nervously.

“Some labor, I require an extra servant as of late. Nothing you shouldn’t be able to handle.” Again, that glimmering, bright smile. There’s nothing traditionally _dangerous_ about his voice, the gentle, low tone he uses on you is almost _magical_ beyond, well, the obvious. Still, the hair on your arms stands on end, your heartbeat plummets, and your muscles tense in the expectation of something downright sinister.

You’ve heard the stories, about how his kind like to twist their words and pull them around until something barely recognizable remains. No, you will not be making a deal with him, and that’s your only strategy for survival.

When you don’t say anything, he turns on all charm, giving you a smile that nearly puts you at ease. “You will be in my service for a brief period,” he says expectantly, a strand of his black hair falling into his face, “you won’t even notice the time flying by.”

_That’s what you’re afraid of._ Still, you say nothing, not giving any sort of reaction, knowing that he needs direct verbal confirmation for your end of the deal.

“Not even thanks for my offer?” He arches his eyebrows, and you can see his irises flicker between dark, shimmery colors.

You stay silent.

“I’m going to go home, then,” he shrugs, “obviously my good graces deserve to be in a place where they will be appreciated.”

Instead of remaining where you are, though, you quickly mull over the unseen dangers that this Otherworld holds, and decide to follow him. He notices, after all, you’re not precisely _subtle_ about it, and seems slightly more amused by your presence now than earlier.

“Already changed your mind?” He asks, good-naturedly.

You carefully don’t respond, only watching him through your periphery as you walk. The air here _feels_ different, you can’t really explain it, and it leaves a tangy sort of aftertaste in your lungs when you exhale. Silently, you walk, wondering if you should cover your mouth while you breathe, then realize it probably won’t make that much of a difference in the long run.

The fae doesn’t seem to notice your unwillingness to speak and talks to you about all the things you will be expected to do under his authority. “You will be my personal servant, and therefore answer to _me_ above all my other kindred, though they will expect you to obey them with equal fervor. Anything they order you to that goes directly against my authority will be ignored and reported to me. Do you understand?”

You _almost_ say yes, but catch yourself at the last very last second. He could easily accept that as acceptance of the deal.

Unhindered by your lack of cooperation, he goes on, “you will eat what I tell you to eat. You will sleep when I tell you to sleep. There is a servant’s quarter attached to my room, that is where you will be spending the nights.”

You didn’t expect to be walking towards… well, a _palace,_ though you don’t know why the thought didn’t even cross your mind. Tall, foreboding, towers shaped as sharply as daggers pierce into the cloudy sky, bricks made from bricks black as night. Torches line the outside, magically burning with a fire as blue as the morning sky. There is no drawbridge, no moat, just a single, large door open for anyone to stroll through. You wonder if the fae ever go to war, what their defenses might be beyond what you might see walking in. _Surely this isn’t it,_ you think, as you are led into an open courtyard.

“Do not speak to anyone else unless you are spoken to.” His last order.

Despite trying to take in slow, calming breaths, your hands tremble with anxiety and fear. Still, you try to put on a mask of indifference, wondering if it would be better to seem wholly uninterested in the affairs surrounding you than to act like a quaking babe. Do the fair folk enjoy preying on perceived weakness, or do they prefer attacking shows of strength? You suppose you’ll find out shortly. Everyone within the kingdom is a specific kind of flawless. Different, and yet all _disgustingly perfect,_ uniquely shaped cheekbones, sharply shaped jaws, and eyes so glimmery and piercing your heart almost stops when they look over at you.

“Your grace,” one of them says, “you’ve returned with… a new pet.”

_Your grace,_ you almost choke on your own tongue. You’re so caught up in wondering if his status as a royal is somehow better or worse for your health that you barely notice that fact that you have been referred to as a _pet._ Even though you _try_ not to let those words get under your skin, some of your disgust must show on your face, because the fae- the _lord_ or whatever places a hand atop your head, almost as though to be a calming gesture. Or perhaps an act of territorial marking.

“This will be my new assistant,” he says _almost_ good-naturedly, “send for a seamstress to prepare some acceptable clothing for such a station.”

The other fae looks at _you,_ so critically, and your insides shrivel. “As it pleases you, your grace.”

No word of thanks, nor any kind of signal that he’s heard, he merely turns around, hand firmly gripping your shoulder, and half _drags_ you through the castle. You try your absolute _damnest_ to remember the twists and turns you are brought through, but the unfamiliar environment coupled with the accusatory glares from the fair folk, it’s… difficult, and you find yourself forgetting the way sooner than you’d like. Thankfully, though, you’re in the fae’s room about the same time as you’ve completely lost any bearing.

“This is my suite,” he explains, gesturing vaguely, reaching over for a tassel at the end of a golden string that threads up into the ceiling. “One moment, love.”

A shiver runs down your spine. Before you can even gather your thoughts together, a human pops out of the wall. Well, more specifically, from a hidden servant’s passageway, but you’re honestly too jarred by her sudden appearance that you almost faint.

“You rang, your grace?” She asks, falling to a curtsy.

“My new assistant,” he waves vaguely in your direction, “needs a more in-depth tour of your kind’s goings-on. Give her the servant’s tour.”

You don’t like the words _or_ tone he uses, but you silently comply, stepping into the open passageway, as does she. That is, until both of you are out of earshot of the _prince_ , where her disposition suddenly goes from rigid professional to sweet and friendly. Oh, yeah, that’s something else that’s an interesting development, because you had expected the fae to be like, you don’t know, maybe a duke or something, not the third son of the Otherworld monarch. You think you might throw up, but the servant gives you a sympathetic pat on the back and continues the tour at the speed of a racing stallion, too fast for you to fully break down.

At the end of the day, you’re sitting on the end of a small, thin cot, staring blankly at the wall. One decision. One action. A single movement where you made the hasty choice of marching through a fae ring has completely, _utterly_ destroyed your life. Absentmindedly you wonder if the lesser-known stories about how time works differently in the Otherworld are true, if all that you know is already gone as the sun sets, but you try not to think too terribly hard about it.

Letting out a soft, angry breath, you stand, silently entering the prince’s room, working for the next couple of months, maybe even _years,_ you have trouble keeping time, as essentially a maid. You’re stuck taking care of every single need that might arise for the prince throughout the day. From the outside, it might be a simple task, but to be quite frank, you’re basically an unrespected slave. You clean his room, sweep the fireplace ashes, fetch him food outside of official banquets, the likes. Does he get on your nerves? Oh, _yes._ Incredibly so. There are times you would like to pick up the fancy knife hanging on the wall for decoration and stab it into his neck.

You don’t, though, spending every ounce of free time in the library, which is _extensive_ and rarely habited by anyone other than the silent religious type. Since you really _can’t_ depend on the prince for helping you out of this mess, you try to figure your own way, reading book after book, finding formulas, spells, even _dates_ best to perform the rituals, but you’re down on some essential things. Magic. Ingredients. Every time you think you’ve found your way out, you’re _hit_ with another roadblock, and you find yourself absolutely _seething_ for the rest of that day.

But honestly, can anyone really blame you? You _cannot_ risk making a deal with the prince, for you have seen enough of his promises to know they are nothing more than carefully worded falsehoods. You’ve witnessed them firsthand, beyond what he’s sworn to you. No, you will not offer him your loyalty.

“Come here,” the prince says one evening, recklessly. He’s still drunk from the evening banquet, you can tell from the soft red of his cheeks.

You swallow nervously, stepping only slightly closer to where he lounges in his bed. “What do you need?”

“I need you,” he says, quite recklessly, pointing in your general direction.

You don’t really know how to answer _that,_ because he’s never admitted… well, any kind of dependence on you during your service under him. Careful to keep your voice steady, you say, “well, _I’m here,_ so what exactly do you need? Tea? More wine, perhaps?”

He shakes his head, _staring,_ looking over you with those shimmering, dragonfly-like eyes. “I need _you,_ you little rebellious minx.”

You let out a huff of impatience. “I heard the first part, your grace, but you must be more specific. Would you like me to fetch for the pleasure services?”

“You’re not listening.” The prince reaches out in your direction, though he can’t quite reach you. “I need _you,_ not anyone else.”

The words sink in, and you take a moment to thoroughly mull them over. _Surely he isn’t serious,_ you think, furrowing your brow as you look at his disheveled figure, his shirt wide open, black hair wildly askew, his silver leaf crown tilted. _He’s just drunk,_ you conclude confidently, letting out a loud sigh as you roll your eyes. “If you don’t mind, I think it’s time for me to draw your bath.”

“Will you be joining me?” He says, eyes waggling suggestively.

“To wash your hair, as I always do,” you say, trying to keep the contempt from your voice. As you turn, you catch his face falling slightly, though you ignore it as you enter the bathroom.

The bathtub is admittedly enormous and _could_ fit you alongside rather comfortably, not that you would _ever._ Quickly, you turn the faucet on, running your hand under the burst of water so you may adjust for the temperature. Once everything is done correctly, and the bath is filled with sudsy bubbles, you head back to where you left the prince, who is still lounging on the bed.

“Come on,” you order, pulling at his arm to get him up. He complies but seems to enjoy leaning a portion of his weight onto you as you half drag him over to the bathroom.

You leave him in there to undress, but it doesn’t take him long to call you back in, pale body completely bare, though mostly hiding beneath the bubbles _thank goodness._ He can wash his own hair, you _know_ he can do it himself, but he’s been having _you_ do it lately if you’re anywhere near, which you usually are. Knowing better than to refuse him, you enter the bathroom again, careful to keep your gaze on his _face_ and nowhere else. His wings flicker behind him, glimmering like stained glass in the candlelight, as you collect the necessary products.

His hair is _nice,_ you would never dare lie to anyone. It’s so different from where you have come from, where most of the boys and men sport greasy locks that never see so much as a brush during their lifetimes. The care that goes into it, though, sometimes makes you wonder if it’s even worth it, all the primping, preening, brushing, and massaging, but you suppose if you always had someone to do all the work for you like he does, it might be easier to deal with. The strands tangle in your fingers as you gently begin, working water and some kind of golden-colored dust into his scalp.

“You’re quiet,” he says, “as always. Why don’t you speak more often?”

You mull over your answer carefully. “Words mean the difference between life and death for me, your grace.”

“I would never harm you,” he hums, then adds, as though an afterthought, “you know that we cannot lie to your kind.”

“I do know.” You’ve avoided saying _yes_ since the day you first arrived.

“So when I say that I _need_ you, what do you think I mean? You don’t seem to understand.”

You pause the massage, staring at a point in his head of black hair like it might swallow you up. “I think that you benefit greatly from my service as your assistant.”

A lie. He must sense it, too, because he’s doing that thing where he lets out a little, quizzical hum, clearly mulling your physical reaction over rather than your verbal one. Then, his words slightly slurred from the alcohol still coursing through his system, he says, “that is an incorrect interpretation.”

“And what,” you’re almost afraid to ask, “would the correct interpretation be?”

He looks at you. _Really_ looks at you, staring a hole straight through your skull, and says, simply, “I adore you.”

“No, you don’t,” you say, almost nervous.

“I cannot lie,” he reminds you, “what I speak must be the truth.”

You need a moment. Standing, you take a step away from the porcelain bathtub, trying to breathe in a way that calms your body down. This can’t be possible. This- there’s no way that a _fae prince_ of all people might… might…

“I will say it as many times as I must for you to believe it.” He leans his head back, the edge of his hair dipping into the water. “I adore you. I adore you. I adore you. _I adore you._ I-”

“I understand,” you interrupt before your face catches fire, picking up a small brush and returning to your place at his side.

“Good, I was afraid you wouldn’t.” He closes his eyes. “Do stay a little longer. Please.”


End file.
